


Spacing

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Deal with a Devil, Fights, M/M, Omega Jason Todd, Sexual Tension, Space Pirates, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Usually, Slade's a mercenary. He's got the ship and the crew for it, and enough of a reputation to make sure more than enough jobs come his way to keep it all running. He doesn't tend to resort to pirating, but salvage is salvage, and there's no sense passing up free profit when the opportunity arises.If that profit happens to include a sole survivor in the form of an uptight, good little Imperial soldier, well... Opportunities come in all shapes and sizes, and Slade's very practiced at taking advantage of them.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 46
Kudos: 342





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is just some good old fashioned space fun, with a little added spice of omegaverse. You can thank the plot bunnies. Enjoy!

The first shot hits the ground just in front of Slade's boot. Jenkins, to his right, yelps and jumps back. Carrow, spread out to his left, swears and draws his gun. Slade tilts his head and raises his gaze to the twisted, hulking wreck of a ship towering over them.

From about four different angles, echoing over itself, a male voice calls, _"This is Imperial property! Take another step and we'll open fire!"_

'We,' hm?

He considers, eyeing the angle of the scorched mark in the ground, and then the shadowed corners of the wreck. Keeps his eyes there, as he steps forward.

The second shot goes right between his legs.

 _"I said not another step!_ "

"I don't remember hearing that," Slade calls back.

Narrow gap to aim for; so he's not a bad shot. Same angle of fire. Mark looks like the tight, precise blast of a standard-issue Imperial League rifle. A survivor of the wreck, then. Heat sweep didn't turn him up, but wrecks like these tend to hide those; too much sun-warmed metal and the odd still-running systems to confuse results. Impressive to live through something like this, though. It's half-embedded in the ground, and what remains looks like it was shredded to pieces by something a lot bigger and tougher than a standard cruiser. He has his doubts it was a military conflict, though. You don't take down a ship like this and then not sweep the crash site for survivors, and there's nothing but plains and yellow-tinted grass for at least an hour's walk, by his reckoning.

Jenkins and Carrow are spreading out a bit on either side. Not closer, technically, but making the angles more difficult in case of fire. Slade doesn't look at either of them, just eyes the metal. The gaps and shadows, the bits that seem weak…

 _"Then since you're hard of hearing, you get a last chance,"_ the man says, less of a shout and more of a snarl. _"Turn around, get back on your shuttle and leave, and we won't fill you full of holes, pirate."_

One of Jenkins' guns comes to his hand, half-hidden by his thigh with the other still in plain, open view. Untouched. Carrow holds his openly, half-raised but not yet aimed at the wreck.

The shot goes through Jenkins' leg. Carrow jerks into position and squeezes off two rounds before the second shot punches through his shoulder.

Slade only needs one to snap the already-damaged strut of a mostly hidden catwalk, barely visible behind a twisted, crumpled piece of the outer hull.

The metal screeches, gives under its own weight and sends the catwalk swinging down with a mighty crash, and a distinctly human yelp. Slade strides forward as the man — clinging to the end of the falling catwalk — slams into the wall and is knocked loose, tumbling out to crash to the dirt and grass at the base of the wreck.

The fall must stun him a little bit, because there’s a delay between Slade grabbing the scruff of his neck and him reacting. But when he does, it’s with a snarled curse and attempted swing of a fist at his head. He gets a flash of blue-green eyes and white, bared teeth in a still youthful face before he blocks the boy's wild swing and retaliates with an easy backhand. Enough to stagger, and the boy goes down to a clean sweep of his legs when Slade releases the grip on his neck.

He shifts on the ground, head hanging low as he gathers himself, getting a knee under him to take his weight, gauntleted hands pressing into the ground. The armor the boy's wearing is sleek but, Slade knows, built to take hits like that tumble to the ground; standard black and grey Imperial design, with the tight, high-backed neck to desensitize their soldiers to any sort of a submission grab, and make a bite all but impossible. He's lost the helmet somewhere, though.

"Be easier if you stayed down," Slade comments, eyeing the shift of the boy's shoulders. His head's low, but tilted.

About one good lunge's distance away is the rifle that fell down here with him.

If Slade hadn't been paying attention, the burst of speed would have caught him off guard. But since he is, he can match it with his own. The boy's fast enough to get a hand on the rifle, but not fast enough to bring it up before Slade's on him, pinning that wrist down and slamming the boy into the ground with his own weight. He's got enough reach to wrench the rifle away with his other hand and then toss it aside, ignoring how he's squirming and snarling under him.

He gets the first hint of scent there, further confirming the theories he's working off of. Omega; not uncommon but still technically the minority for soldiers, but that comes down to pure physical difference between them and alphas. Imperials espouse equality more than anything, but they still like their soldiers big and strong, just like anyone else. Alphas hit their benchmarks more often.

An elbow drives itself into his ribs in his moment of distraction. His armor takes most of the impact, but it still drives a grunt from him; kid hits hard. Slade doesn’t particularly feel like taking any other hits today.

He strikes with his free hand, finding that edge right where the armor ends at the top of the neck to allow for movement. Too high for a real hold, but he knows from experience his hand is big enough to stretch out under the base of the skull and press his fingers in right over—

The boy jerks with a wounded noise that sounds like it was wrenched right out of his throat, and then falls utterly still apart from the sharp, frantic little rise-and-falls of his chest. If his jaw wasn’t clenched tight enough to break teeth, he’d probably be whining. Most people whine when there’s direct, painful pressure on their scent glands, especially when it comes with a hold at the back of the neck, however normally ineffectual.

Slade adds a growl not because he thinks he needs to, but just to reinforce the message. “Enough, boy. You’re done.”

The boy shudders at that, twitches and gives a second minuscule jerk. Then, a very small lowering of his head, till his forehead just barely touches the ground. It's less than most would give, but it's enough for Slade to recognize it as at least some small bit of submission.

He eases his grip, enough that the frozen tension of the boy's shoulders relax in sudden, sharp relief. There's a shuddering breath, and Slade feels the movement of the throat under his gauntlet as the boy swallows, head dipping a little further.

"That's better."

Slowly, to drive the point home and to make sure he'll have time to react if the boy tries anything stupid, Slade pulls the wrist he has captive around and to the boy's back. He presses it there a moment, backs up the silent order with a quiet warning rumble, and then releases it to reach for the other arm, where it's held tight at his side. It's stiff, but after a small tug and a slightly louder rumble, the boy lets him pull it to join the other at his back. One forearm layered over the other, Slade wraps his hand over the top of them both and leans a bit of his weight into the grip. They flex, but the boy doesn't test his hold.

Not for now, anyway.

Slade turns his head, looking back at Carrow and Jenkins. Jenkins is on the ground, but Carrow's moved over to his side and is in the process of helping him off the ground. They're both bleeding some, but Imperial rifles leave fairly clean, partially cauterized wounds. They'll both be fine, with a bit of rest.

"Take the shuttle," he calls, catching their full attention as Jenkins staggers and sways a bit, balancing on just the one leg. "Get patched up, send a salvage team down. The wreck's stable enough to work in; we'll strip it of anything useful before we go."

Jenkins looks angry behind the pain, but his eyes flick down in obedience. Carrow's the one to call back, "Yes, sir!" and then begin to turn them both towards the shuttle.

"You're going to regret this," the boy snarls, slightly choked but still strong. "When the rest of my unit gets back—”

"Let's skip this part, shall we?" Slade interrupts. "There are no others; you're alone here, boy."

The moment the boy is lost for words is proof enough, even if Slade hadn't already made his conclusions. He rallies, though. "You really think I'm the only one who survived the wreck? You have any idea the complement on a ship this size?" A small flex of his arms, pulling very slightly. "Want to take those chances?"

Slade's amused, despite himself. He lets that be audible in his voice as he says, "Someone with backup doesn't rig up a sound system to disguise where they're hiding, boy. They don't give two warning shots either, or aim non-lethally after they've given them. A soldier with backup would have shot to kill, especially armed pirates like us. See, I know a thing or two about how you Imperials behave." He leans down, pushing enough weight into the boy's back to get a soft grunt. "And I know good Imperial boys like you don't go without scent neutralizers, unless you've got no reason to wear them."

That gets him a stronger reaction. A sharp flash of tension, all movement freezing into stillness as the boy processes that Slade knows a little more than he's probably supposed to about the cultural life of Imperial soldiers. But he doesn't argue. He stays frozen for a moment, but then exhales in a sharp rush and gives, evidently accepting that his attempt at a bluff has failed. Smart boy.

Slade tilts his head to look down the length of the armor on the boy, looking for… Yes, there it is. Imperial soldiers do try to have as many fun, compact tools on them as possible.

He lets go of the boy's neck to lower his hand and take the magnetic cuffs from their clipped-on spot just above his hip. The boy's head twists, but he's only just sucking in a breath when Slade clips the cuffs around his wrists and presses the control to let them hum and _snap_ together.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," the boy snarls, jerking against them. "You—!”

Slade snorts and grabs one bicep as he gets off the kid, standing and dragging him up as well. The boy keeps snarling, but what struggling he's doing is negligible; Slade's got more than enough strength to haul around one soldier boy, even if he doesn't want to go. It's not far, anyway. He only drags the boy over to one of the walls formed by the hull of the ship and hits the control for the cuffs. They release, the boy starts to tense to fight, and Slade tosses his captive arm up against the wall and hits the button again. The cuff does the job of yanking his wrist in the last couple inches, trapping it just about level with his head. The other cuff, arm still partially behind him, snaps itself to the armor at his hip.

Slade steps back, letting the kid twist and fight the cuffs, tossing the control up into the air as he watches. "I know a thing or two about your weaponry, too," he comments, not even trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

The boy turns to glare at him, twisting his wrist in the cuff so he can swing around, still trapped against the wall, but facing outwards, at least. Being able to kick isn't going to do him much good, but Slade doesn't begrudge him trying. He's never minded a fight, and it's not like the boy has any chance of being a serious threat to him.

His wrist rotates again in the cuff, working against it as if the boy can't quite stand just giving into the idea of being restrained, but he falls otherwise still, eyes narrowed and lip curled slightly upwards. Slade tucks the control for the cuffs away in one of the compartments on his gauntlets, and takes the opportunity to actually look at the boy.

He's tall, relatively broad shoulders but a trim waist, the likely giveaway of somewhat broader hips hidden by the cut of the armor there, though it does nothing to diminish from the boy's long legs or powerful thighs. He's handsome, too. Short black hair around his ears, a bit shorter than Slade's own. A stronger jaw than most omegas boast, but he's got long lashes and pretty eyes. A mixed blue-green, not unlike some of the oceans Slade's seen over his life.

With a flash of teeth, the boy asks, "So? What now, scavenger?"

"Actually," Slade corrects, "most days I'm a mercenary. No sense in turning down salvage like this, though. Supplies from your ship will net us a tidy fortune, most likely."

"The sense is that it's illegal."

Slade smiles. "Not in this section of the universe it's not, boy. We're not in Imperial territory; out here you're just another crashed ship, and we're the completely lawful salvage team laying claim to the wreckage."

The boy snarls, openly. "Imperial ships are sovereign territory even in—”

"Bullshit that they teach you to make you self-righteous defenders." Slade snorts, taking a slow, obvious look around. "Crashing your ship into a planet doesn't make that piece of ground Imperial territory, kid. By local laws, any ship without surviving crew can be salvaged by the first ship to come across it. Even your Imperial ones."

The kid's hand clenches. " _I'm_ surviving crew," he points out, and his voice has exactly as much wariness to it as it should.

“Are you, though?” Slade smiles lazily, and enjoys the slew of new emotions that pass over the kid’s face.

Finally, it settles on something along the lines of defiance. “Yes.”

“Then mind your manners, before I decide to play not so nice.”

The armor’s just low enough on the boy’s throat for Slade to see him swallow. His gaze drops, teeth grinding, before he asks, “So what happens if there are survivors?”

Slade steps forward, close enough he could reach out and touch, if he wanted to. His movement gets him the immediate focus of the boy’s gaze, again. “ _If_ there was a survivor, I might be convinced to offer them some help. For the right price.”

He can see the flicker of realization in the kid’s eyes, before he breathes out a tightly controlled exhalation. “Like any salvage from the ship.”

Smart boy.

The kid says something under his breath that looks like it was a swear, back pressing into the hull of the ship before his chin lifts again. “And I’d what? Get transportation back to Imperial space?”

Slade tilts his head. Smirks. “No, I think the ship would get you a message. As soon as we’re within range of an Imperial cruiser, or any of your ports, we’d be happy to send them your coordinates.”

For a second, the boy just stares at him in disbelief. Then, his voice cracking, he says, “A _message?_ Exactly what the fuck do you think your time is worth?!”

“A little more than your life, and you’re bargaining for both, boy. That’s a hefty price tag.”

Teeth flash. It’s foolish but almost cute how the kid growls, deep and low. It would be a threatening sound if he were free. “Fuck you. I don’t need your ‘help.’ Imperials don’t leave tech on planets outside our territory; they’ll come for me.”

The little soldier really doesn’t know, does he?

Slade considers for a moment. “No one’s coming, kid,” he says, deciding on the truth. “Your beacon’s broken; our ship only picked it up from a planet away. You might be found eventually, but soon enough…?” He lifts an eyebrow. “How’s the wildlife here, or the weather? You think you can survive it long enough for an Imperial ship to stumble close enough to pick up the distress signal?”

There’s distrust, first and foremost. The boy doesn’t believe him, or at least doesn’t want to, not that Slade’s surprised by that. But even with only one real eye Slade’s far from blind, and it would take a blind man to miss that this wreck has been here a good while already. The grass has grown in around its edges, all hint of scorching or damage to the ground is gone apart from where it’s actually embedded, and the boy himself… Well, that hair certainly isn’t a regulation length, even if he doesn’t seem to be one of those omegas that can grow a beard. It’s been a few weeks, at least. Possibly months.

He waits a few moments, then asks, quietly enough it could be mistaken as gentle, “How long have you been here, boy?”

For the first time, those eyes shy away from his gaze. The boy hesitates, looks from the ship, to the sky, and back again. There’s torn indecision in his expression, the great struggle between loyalty, and simple self preservation. Slade wonders, idly, how he’s justifying whatever decision he’s coming to.

Finally, so painfully slow it’s like it’s being pried from the boy’s throat syllable by syllable, he asks, “What would… What would transport cost?”

Good question. What could he pry from the good little soldier...? Imperial secrets? No, the boy's too low a rank for it to be likely that he knows anything Slade doesn't. Troop movements? No, his information is out of date by this point, and besides, there are sources Slade can get that from that he would actually trust to tell the truth, but this boy certainly isn't one of them. Which means the only real value the boy has is what entertainment he might provide.

Repressed little omega soldier boy, with no other option but to rely on him. Could be fun.

He hums deep in his throat, as if he’s considering. Better if the boy thinks he’s on shakier ground. “We don’t usually leave much empty room for ‘guests.’ Could be a long while before we’re back in Imperial space; that’s a lot of resources and space you’d be using up. It would cost me.” Slade pauses just long enough to let the first hint of worry spark in the boy’s eyes, then offers, “Work as long as you’re aboard, and I’ll consider that fair payment."

The boy shifts a bit, worry being joined by suspicion. "What kind of work?" A flick of eyes betrays exactly what the boy's thinking.

Well, best not to disappoint. Slade smirks, tilting his head. "Any kind I want."

The trapped hands clench. Poor Imperial boy, trapped with the uncivilized savages and their sexist, debauched ways. The thoughts that must be in his head… What exactly does he think Slade will demand, having him at his mercy?

Whatever his thoughts, evidently he finds them preferable to a slow death or further abandonment. He swallows, and dips his head far enough to be submission, though his gaze remains slightly lifted. "Alright. I'll work, if you'll get me back to Imperial space."

"It's a deal."

A nod, and a rough, "Deal."

Why not test his commitment to that agreement now, then? Billy will be annoyed enough at allowing an Imperial soldier aboard their ship, no need to let the boy keep his tools and weaponry, too. And if he balks at simple physical proximity, well, then Slade will know how far he can push before he gets met with violence.

He takes a step forward, and watches for a reaction as he warns, "I'm going to strip your gear off you."

The boy tenses a bit, but doesn't move.

Slade closes the last bit of distance, taking the boy's shoulder and slowly pushing until he takes the hint and twists within the confines of the cuff holding him to the wall. It leaves his back to Slade, head turned enough that he might just be able to keep track of his movements out of the very corner of his eye. Slade doesn't pretend that he isn't eyeing the boy's neck. If he can see it, it's what the boy will expect anyway. It's not like he's going to be shocked if Slade behaves like the amoral brute he probably believes he is.

He's familiar with Imperial armor, so he doesn't actually have to run his hands over it like he does, as if he's having to search for the hidden catches to find things. It's enjoyable, though. The hard catch of breath when he nudges the boy's legs open with a knee is particularly amusing, and he'll fully admit that he takes longer than he has to feeling up the boy's thighs, pressing in where he knows the armor's thinnest, before he sinks to a knee to check his calves and feet as well. He finds a non-standard blade tucked into each boot, along with the usual gear, so he chalks it up as a success.

The boy goes absolutely rigid when he passes his hands — firm, but professional; Slade knows when not to push — over his groin and ass, but doesn't lash out. Quite.

Slade lets his hands rest lightly at the boy's waist, head dipped down to speak close to his ear. "Is there anything you want to tell me about?" he asks, keeping his voice a low rumble. Not a threat, but not a comfort.

There probably isn't anything else hidden in the armor, but it's always possible. He'll find out later, either way. For now, why not give the boy the chance to come clean, if there's anything he's still hiding? A little… test. If that's necessary.

The shiver is tightly constrained, but there. It's not anything but wariness, at this point, though Slade takes a moment to pretend it is. Pretend that his size and proximity are awakening more than just fear in the omega, likely so unused to any alpha scent that isn't muted behind blockers. It's not true, but it's a self-gratifying fantasy. Maybe he'll manage to make it a reality, before they reach Imperial space.

The boy swallows hard enough it's almost audible. "No."

Slade removes his hands, and extracts the remote from his gauntlet to deactivate the cuffs. The boy takes a sharp breath in as his hands come free from where they've been stuck. Flinches when he touches his wrist, but the moment he realizes Slade is removing the cuffs entirely he stills. Slade collects them both, and tosses them on the small pile to the side. It's tempting to press the contact, but he can be patient when the occasion calls for it. Honey rather than vinegar, and all that.

"We'll take the shuttle back when they return," he tells the boy, stepping back to give him a bit of space. Not too much space, though, not with that pile of gear sitting there. He doesn't think the boy is stupid enough to get into a fight with him after they've struck a deal, but Slade hasn't gotten as far as he has in life by taking unnecessary chances.

When the kid turns around, cautious but with chin raised, Slade arches an eyebrow and glances to the pile. He gets the message, steps away from it without needing prompting and then moves further apparently of his own accord, out towards the open stretch of grass outside this makeshift entrance to the wreck. The boy's keeping an eye on him, if the half-turned body and tilt of his head is any measure, but he does cross his arms and stand there as if he isn't.

Slade takes the time to stroll over and collect the fallen rifle, thumbing it back to ready to check the charge. Still almost an entire battery; boy's been keeping it charged, only took the couple of shots he needed. Good that he brought things to a quick close, or the boy could have put up quite a fight. Though at least two of his crew are going to be sour about what fight he did put up.

Slade smirks to himself at the thought, lifting the rifle to aim down the barrel for a moment, check the sights. Well maintained. No damage.

What a good little soldier. Seeing how far that goes should be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Firefright's Tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Skalidra's Tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! A belated Merry Christmas or Boxing Day or Hanukkah or etc. to you all. Enjoy!

His shoulders hurt.

It feels like a petty complaint, considering where he's currently standing, but for some reason he can't help but keep focusing on it. They ache, somehow worse than where he hit the wall when he fell, or where Captain Asshole's fingers dug into his neck. Though that's… tender. He's trying not to think about it; every time he remembers the shock of pressure he gets little cold shivers down his spine, and has to fight the urge to bare a bit of his throat.

That's not the kind of reaction that Jason wants to deal with right now, following the alpha that did it to him through the tight, unfamiliar corridors of a ship that he's going to be stuck on for at least a few weeks. With said alpha. What a bastard.

He almost shivers for real, taking his next breath and getting another lungful of that fucking scent coming off the alpha. Gunmetal and smoke, over something earthy and thick he can't name. Whatever it is it's strong and distracting, and he wants it _out of his nose_.

He shakes his head and resists the urge to snort, and of course that's the exact moment that Captain Asshole reaches wherever they're going, tugging the glove off one big hand and pressing it to a panel next to a burnt-orange door. It matches the paint on the outside of the ship, actually.

(She's a sleek thing, mid-sized, black and orange, bristling with weaponry and with the distinctive sheen to her panels of stealth tech. Jason's commander would have ordered her captain to send proof of registration and licensing the second he saw her. Then a crew manifest, if anything got even the most minor flag. Ships like this don't tend to have legal reasons for existing, and it's a better chance than most that a sweep of the crew pulls up a few outstanding warrants.)

Captain Asshole steps through the door as soon as it opens, hand falling away as he strides in. Jason grits his teeth and follows, refusing to allow his own nerves to stop him at the door. Just because he _is_ trapped doesn't mean he has to act like it. He's not helpless, and he's not some trembling, weak, victimized omega like these kinds of pirates treat his kind. He's a _soldier_.

The wave of scent all but sucker punches him just as the door shuts.

He flinches, choking on the deep breath he took as his back hits the closed door. He can't even begin to control the cough, yanking a hand up to cover his nose and mouth as if that's going to do anything to stop the powerful, pervasive _scent_ burning his nose. What the _hell—_?

"Get used to it."

Jason yanks his head up, finding Captain Asshole watching him with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. It's tempting to snap at him, but the second he takes a breath he nearly chokes again. The bastard snorts and shakes his head, moving to strip off the other gauntlet and then drop both on a black couch, near the center of the room.

"You're lucky I understand, kid. Normally reacting to someone's scent like that is considered rude." Captain Asshole turns back to him with a smirk, fingers apparently working at his armor, loosening it. "Could start a fight."

Jason bares his teeth, even though they're mostly covered by his hand. Maybe mostly because they're covered by his hand. He doesn't know whether it's the phantom pressure at his neck or the overpowering burn of the captain's scent in his nose, but he can't quite bring himself to snarl outright. He just… He can't.

The outer layer of the armor comes off, folding into itself as he drops it to the couch and leaving Captain Asshole in just the black undersuit. It's… tight. Maybe there was a part of Jason that thought the armor was adding imaginary bulk but it really, _really_ wasn't. The captain is… big. Very big.

Something unfamiliar flutters in his stomach.

The black fabric shifts and molds itself to muscle as the captain straightens up, leisurely rolling each shoulder as he turns around. Those pale blue eyes come to rest on him, one real, the other with the unmistakable, electric-blue flicker of a replacement in its depths. The thick scar over the eye makes the why obvious, if not the what. Jason's been briefed on all sorts of tech that replacements like that can hold. Scanners, weaponry, discrete jammers…

Jason stiffens as the captain steps forward, moving slowly but purposefully till he's just in front of him, boxing him back against the door. Trapping him with just his size and that niggling urge at the back of his skull that keeps telling him that being aggressive is a bad idea. It's probably the only thing that keeps him from swinging as the captain reaches up and takes his wrist, tugging his hand away from his mouth. A knuckle from the other hand presses under his chin, and Jason struggles for a second to hold before something in him bends without his permission. His chin tilts up, his neck baring, and all he can smell is smoke and metal.

"Luckily for you," the captain says, low enough it almost rips a shiver out of him, "I know you're just a sheltered little Imperial. Never been around a _real_ alpha before, have you, boy?"

_Real_ alpha? Arrogant, condescending, mercenary _bastard_.

It's hard, but he bares his teeth anyway. Forces himself to speak as close to a snarl as he can get. " _Real_ alphas don't need to use their scent to get what they want."

He reads the flash of teeth as a threat before it registers as a grin.

"Is that what they teach you? Scent is manipulative? Underhanded? _Dishonorable?_ " The bastard laughs, leaning in even closer. "Scent is natural, kid, and your Imperial friends are the only repressed pricks in this whole side of the 'verse that think what makes us unique should be stamped out. Get used to it; no one on this ship is going to hide what they are just to make you comfortable."

His captive hand curls to a fist. It's not _about_ him being comfortable, it's just crude. Scent is a private thing that doesn't have any goddamn business being in a working environment; it's rude to flash it in someone's face when you don't even _know_ them. He's not fucking sheltered, or naïve, and it's not his first fucking time being around an asshole that doesn't want to back off.

Jason knows his own strengths, and he knows that the growl he pulls out of his chest — forcing himself to overwhelm that lingering urge to just submit — is deeper than most of his gender can manage. Deep enough to rival any bastard, mercenary alpha that thinks they can intimidate him, as if being omega makes him any less than them.

" _Fuck_ you," he spits afterwards, keeping his teeth bared, his hand clenched.

Captain Asshole doesn't do anything but smirk. Then he leans just a fraction forward, and just when Jason thinks he might actually have to swing, says, "You couldn't handle me, kid, but I'll keep the offer in mind."

His hand's already been released, and the captain's already moving away from him, before he fully understands the phrasing he accidentally left open. He feels his cheeks burn, tongue twisting in on itself even as he bristles.

One of the captain's hands flicks off to the side. "Strip the armor off and leave it with me. There's a shower through there, you can clean up; I'll get you something to wear."

The idea of taking his armor off in this place, with _him_ , makes Jason's skin crawl. "I'm not wearing your things," he argues, watching the captain wander over to the couch and sprawl out on it, next to the armor he discarded.

He gets a snort, and a flick of eyes down to his feet and back up. "You're big, kid, but not big enough to wear my clothes."

His cheeks flush even hotter. "I'm not wearing what _you_ give me," he corrects, fighting to try and stamp out the embarrassment. "My armor's fine."

Captain Asshole leans further back into the couch, arm stretching out over the top of it. "You're not wearing Imperial armor on my ship. I'll get you a standard suit out of storage. You can wear it, or you can go naked." There's a flash of teeth, probably more grin than threat but Jason still can't see it that way. "I don't think anyone would mind."

"You—” He bites down on his curse. His teeth grind.

The captain smirks at him.

Fine. _Fine_. He'll pick the battles he can win and apparently this isn't one, cause the captain's a complete jackass. He doesn't have a choice.

He looks over where Captain Asshole gestured, originally, to find a door there. Bathroom, presumably. These must be the captain's quarters, if he's got his own private bathroom. Jason's never known a ship that gave all its crew that kind of privacy. It makes him intensely uncomfortable, in a strange, unfamiliar way, to know that he was brought straight to the captain's own rooms instead of anywhere else. Alone. ( _Trapped_ , part of his brain is insisting, but he _knows_ that, thanks. He was trapped the second he stepped on the shuttle; it's not any better or worse here than there.)

It's not going to do him any good to fight this, anyway. What does he win? Not getting a shower? Not getting clean clothes? If he's going to dig in his heels somewhere, it should be about something that actually matters, right?

"Fine," he agrees, even though he hates the entire idea.

He turns, and manages a single step before Captain Asshole says, "No." Jason grinds his teeth not to snarl, turns back. There's a smirk waiting for him. "Strip. Out here. I want to be sure you're not hiding any weapons in there, boy."

Jackass, asshole, son of a— Yeah. _Sure_ he just wants to make sure there's no hidden weapons. That's definitely what he wants, with a smirk like that and the fucking attention and—

Jason bites down on the tirade just waiting to come off his tongue, and lifts his hands to his armor. He does it sharp, efficient, letting the pieces fall as he strips off the gloves, and then the boots. He doesn't look at the captain, just does it, till everything but his undersuit is on the floor. There's nothing in it. He wasn't hiding anything — as if he had any fucking chance to hide something, with how fast everything went — and Captain Asshole was clearly familiar enough with Imperial armor to strip everything useful off it right from the start.

That doesn't mean that he likes being out of it any more. The undersuit is fine, covers him neck to ankle, but it's meant to be a last barrier against space and a protection from where the armor might chafe, not normal wear. It feels vulnerable, and he's getting really sick, really fast of feeling vulnerable.

He crosses his arms, and tries not to flinch away from the cold metal under his feet. A few steps forward and he'd be on a rug, but he's got no fucking interest in being any closer to Captain Asshole over there, taking his sweet time looking at him as if he's actually scanning for weaponry. It has to be obvious there's nothing on him; undersuits are never loose enough to allow anything like that and it's not like there'd be any easy access to it, even if you could make something fit. He's not some assassin, hiding things under his skin or up… _inside_.

(That replacement eye better not be able to see through the suit or Jason _swears_ to the Imperial flag he'll tear it out of the captain's skull.)

Finally he gets a low, "Go on, then," and a nod towards the door. "Take your time; I'll have a suit sent up for when you're done."

Jason's not thanking him. Fuck that.

There's no lock on the door, but there is a _real water_ shower behind a frosted pane, and that almost makes up for the paranoia the unlocked door inspires. He does look at the controls for a minute, trying to judge if he can jam the electronics enough to get the door to malfunction and stick shut, but ultimately decides against it. He's pretty sure he could, but getting it to open again…? He's pretty sure he'd have to wrench the door open manually to get back out, and honestly, Slade could open it from the other side in exactly the same way. Probably better if Jason doesn't give him any excuse to bust in. Jackass.

The water — _holy_ shit what a luxury, having a water-only shower — is just on the edge of too hot, warm and soothing and perfect as he stands under it and just lets it soak him through. The water-efficient sonic one on his ship definitely saved his life, considering the rain on the planet had some kind of weird chemical composition that took some massive sterilization to be safe to use, but fuck, it's been a long time since he's had a shower like this. The pressure comes down on his shoulders with enough force it feels like a massage.

He sighs, scrapes his hair back. Okay, nice as it is, he shouldn't stay in here any longer than he has to. It's not safe, no matter how good it feels.

That's enough to spur him back into action. He straightens up, breathes in and takes a look at the little in-built shelf under the showerhead. It's got a couple bottles; nothing unusual. Some basic stuff, very typical alpha marketed scent, he thinks. Planet-reminiscent; wood and... something. Whatever. It doesn't smell offensive and it looks like it's his only option, so he'll just have to deal with it. Lot of things are turning out that way, apparently.

It's the first time since the crash that Jason's taken the time to really scrub down and be thorough, and it feels _good_. For the first time, when he shuts the water off, there's no faint lingering scent of sweat or staleness on him. He's really, truly clean. He breathes out into the lingering steam, raking his hair back again to squeeze some of the water out, and pushes the frosted pane back open. A quick scan turns up a shelf across the room with a small stack of towels.

He spares a paranoid glance towards the still-closed door before going for it. It's luxury on top of luxury, because the towels are thick and big (sort of appropriately sized for the fucking giant out there, actually), covering him from armpit to mid-thigh when he finishes wiping off and wraps it around him. There's a mirror to the left of the shelf, and an actual sink and countertop that's just… sticking out.

Is it a pirate thing, to be wasteful with space like that? Or is it just like that because this is Captain Asshole's space, and he gets enough of it that he can use it for stupid things like a counter that doesn't fold up into the wall?

He steps over to it, lifting his hands to try and comb his hair back out of the sticking-up mess the scrub with the towel left it as. It's too long. Fuck, if only he had a cutter. He probably would have chopped it all off in like a week, but it's too late now. It's not like Captain Asshole is going to give him any kind of a blade, and like hell is he going to ask. The bastard would probably make him dance for it or something. Fuck that.

It's already starting to curl at the tips. He sighs and gives up on it.

The door whirs open.

He flinches and jerks, panic taking him for a second before aggression overwhelms it in a sharp rush. He snarls as he spins, shifting as naturally as breathing to a starting combat stance, hands lifting and feet sliding apart. The actual sight of Captain Asshole standing in the doorway doesn't do anything to lessen that response.

"Here," the son of a bitch says, tossing something black and rolled up at him in an easy underhanded toss. Jason catches it on automatic, fumbling slightly as it starts to come undone. "Should fit. Got a bit of smart-tech on the undersuit; triggers are at the wrist. Boots are outside, when you're dressed."

It's the clothing he said he'd bring. Basic black undersuit, and wrapped inside it a black and orange uniform in the same color scheme as the ship and the armor that Captain Asshole was wearing before. Nothing like Jason's armor. Nothing comfortable or familiar. Of course not.

He grips the cloth between his fingers hard enough his knuckles turn white, unease prickling between his shoulder blades at the presence of the bastard. Still there, still _watching_ him. "Get out."

Captain Asshole's gaze flicks over him, and then he snorts. For a second, Jason doesn't think he's going to go. But then he does. He turns, walks back out, and the door closes again.

Jason belatedly breathes in, not realizing he hadn't till the inhale actually hurts his chest a little, as deep and sudden as it is. It takes a few seconds for him to shake his shoulders out, convince the stiffness of his muscles to relax and let him shift back to stand more normally. Another few before he manages to tear his gaze away from the door to actually shake out his new suit.

He could put his own back on. It's not the cleanest, but at least it's his. But what does that accomplish, really? The undersuit's not the piece he's got the problem with, it's the uniform. It's wearing Captain Asshole's colors, like he's one of them, like he actually works for that bastard. (He does for now. Technically. But that's not the fucking point.) But he needs something to go over the undersuit. He could _technically_ wear it by itself but it's—

Well. It's an _under_ suit for a reason. Wearing the asshole's colors might be just a little less uncomfortable than going out there in something skintight. These kinds of people might take that as an invitation.

It's not like Jason really has a choice. Not a good one, anyway.

He shuts himself back inside the shower to change (because fuck the potential of Captain Asshole opening the door to catch him naked). The suit does fit. It's not the same tailored-to-him fit of his own undersuit, but it has, as the captain said, smart-fabric woven in, and a tap and swirl to the tech-pads on each wrists shrinks the fabric down till it's a comfortable cling. They have that kind of tech in the generic emergency suits, but you don't need it if you properly tailor suits to your soldiers. You only need it for suits intended to be worn by more than one person.

The uniform is two pieces, top and bottoms. Not the formality of a dress uniform, but something more suited for work. It's not that different than his standard, on-ship uniform, at least not in the physical design. Everything else is wrong, of course. Definitely a generic size; it mostly fits. Little tight on his shoulders.

About the last thing he wants to do is head back out to meet up with Captain Asshole, but it's not like he can stay in here forever. He's no coward; he'll face these bastards head on, not by barricading himself in a bathroom.

Jason straightens his shoulders, takes a steadying breath, and heads out.

There's someone else in the room when the door opens, standing near Captain Asshole, at the far side of the room near what looks like a desk. Captain Asshole's put a uniform on over his suit; a perfectly tailored and more embellished version of what Jason has, with the orange accents framing some kind of a gold rank insignia over his right shoulder. The new man is wearing one, too, design somewhere in the middle of the two, the insignia roughly half the size.

Jason gets a second just to look at the new guy, as he turns around. Older, grey salt-and-pepper hair more obviously natural than Captain Asshole's pure white, not as tall but still a lean, well-built man. Equally grey moustache, blue eyes with more color in them than the captain's. If there was any similarity in the structure of their faces, Jason would be tempted to say it was Captain Asshole's dad. Given the proximity though, and the design of that insignia, he'd guess… lieutenant? Second in command?

"So you're the Imperial." His voice isn't as deep as the captain's. There's an accent, though. It clips his words. "I hear you've agreed to work for passage back to Imperial space. Welcome to the Deathstroke."

So now he has a name for the ship. It doesn't sound immediately familiar, at least. There probably wasn't an arrest or destroy order out for it, then; Imperial command makes sure those are distributed to soldiers.

"Friendly name," he comments, crossing his arms. That prickle is back between his shoulder blades. "Getting threatened and extorted into work is definitely my definition of 'agreeing,' sure."

Old Guy's mouth pulls into a thin smirk, then he nods off towards Jason's left. "Boots. Should fit, but there are others if they don't."

Jason glances over, sees them. There's an impulse to say thank you, or give a nod of his head, but he bites down on it. He edges off to the side, keeping his gaze on the two of them when he has to lean down to slide each foot into the boots and secure them. A tap of his heel tests the magnetic clamp on each foot in turn, and releases again. Functional. Neither of them make any move to approach him.

"You want to introduce me to our new crew member?" Old Guy asks instead, arching an eyebrow in the direction of Captain Asshole.

"I'm not your crew," Jason snaps, before the bastard can say anything.

Captain Asshole shrugs, arms loosely crossing over his chest. "You heard him."

Old Guy looks to the captain, to him, and then back. "You didn't even _ask_ , did you?" There's a sharp, aggrieved sigh, before Old Guy turns back to him. "I'm William Wintergreen; I'll be your commanding officer as long as you're working on the ship. This—” he jerks a thumb back towards the captain "—is Slade. He's got about as much social grace as a meteor. Nice to meet you…?"

It's tempting not to answer, but Old Guy (Wintergreen, apparently) seems genuine enough. He grinds his teeth, considering for a moment, and then offers, "Jason."

"Jason." Wintergreen nods. "It's just about time for the first lunch shift. Hungry, Jason?"

Yes.

He swallows, wondering whether he wants to reveal that. He comes to the conclusion quickly enough that there's no point. They know he needs to eat. "Yes."

"Great, then why don't we all head that way, and I can tell you a bit about the ship as we go?"

Jason takes a glance at the captain. Slade. There's no approval. No disapproval.

"Alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Firefright's Tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Skalidra's Tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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